The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,28
him. “Don’t call the captain yet. He doesn’t believe Roberts is missing. We have to have some kind of proof otherwise.”
“And what do you propose that might be?”
“Finding The Poet on film while following me seems like a good start.”
We glare at each other, but he silently concedes. We turn and start walking again.
Once we’re inside his Mustang, the car rumbling with life, the air spraying us with heat instead of cold, Lang glances over at me with one of his intense looks. “I’m like a brother?”
“You irritated the hell out of me, so yeah. Brother.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Best-looking big brother on planet Earth.”
He’s trying to blunt the tension and make me laugh. I want to, but I don’t. I poke a finger in the air in his direction. “Whore around with whomever you want, but keep it away from my building.”
“Damn. I wanted to whore around right here.” This time his joke falls flat, the air thickening around it. He wouldn’t be the only one whoring around here, considering The Poet’s visit last night.
Chapter 24
On the ride to campus, I read through the material Chuck’s given me on Newman. “Name is Newman Smith, no middle name.”
“Oh hell, anyone without a middle name is a serial killer.”
I don’t even ask his logic on that one. I simply give him a “you’re crazy” side-eye and then keep reading. “He’s a criminal justice instructor with a master’s in forensic science, which would explain the clean crime scene.”
“I thought we were looking for a poet.”
“Two years ago he taught a class called Abstract Poetry and Criminality. Among the topics discussed were ‘Poetry: words that speak to the soul of a serial killer’ and ‘How poetry connects you to the mind of a killer.’” I hold up a finger. “And. It gets better. Also discussed was ‘How poetry is death by words.’”
“From boredom,” Lang grumbles. “Or brain scramble, just trying to figure out what the flip the poem means.”
His comment has me thinking. The barista hates poetry. Lang hates poetry. Summer clearly loved poetry. He held readings in his theater. I love poetry. Maybe The Poet doesn’t love poetry at all, as I’ve assumed. Maybe he uses it to mock those who do.
I glance over at Lang. “Did Roberts like poetry?”
He snorts. “I’d be shocked to find out Roberts liked poetry. He was a beer, bacon, and football guy.”
“Is there someone we can ask?”
“His ex-wife.”
“Call his ex-wife.”
“I need to talk to her anyway about Roberts, but I’d rather do that in person.”
“Just call her now and ask if he liked poetry. We need to know.”
“All right. I don’t have the number, but I can get it.” He idles at a stoplight and makes a few calls that finally catch up to Roberts’s ex-wife. “Susie,” he greets, and silently mouths, “ex-wife.” “Got a bet I’m trying to win. Does Roberts like poetry?” He glances over at me, and says, “She laughed. The answer is not even a little.”
“How long were they married?” I ask.
Lang relays the question and then says, “Twelve years.”
A long time, I think. “Why’d they divorce?” I ask.
Lang scowls at me, and I scowl right back.
“Ask her.”
He grimaces and says, “Why did you two divorce?”
He listens a moment and then looks at me. “He changed. He was gone all the time and when he was home he was moody and hard to handle.”
Moody and hard to handle. At least, he doesn’t fit the cool, calm calculation I’d expect from The Poet. And he doesn’t like poetry. Or so the ex-wife believes. Assuming that to be true, because I have no other option, my mind races with this bit of new information; Roberts didn’t like poetry. If The Poet did indeed kill both Summer and Roberts, then he killed a man who loved poetry and a man who hated poetry. What am I missing?
Chapter 25
We arrive at the campus while Newman is still teaching a class.
With twenty minutes left before dismissal, Lang and I enter a large auditorium on an upper level, where the lighting is dim and the students sit far below. We settle comfortably into the darkness, where we proceed to hold up a wall together. Teamwork. Occasionally Lang and I make it work.
Newman is, as expected, a tall, fit white man who, as per Chuck’s notes, is forty-two, with an apparent love for bow ties. He’s also standing center stage, discussing blood splatter.
“What if you aspired to outsmart law enforcement?” he asks his class. “Could you influence blood splatter to